Chapter Thirteen: The Interview Trap
The villa buzzed with a new kind of tension the next day. Makeup artists, stylists, and camera crews moved like an army, setting up lights and adjusting microphones. It was all for The Spotlight Hour—the most-watched celebrity talk show in the world.
Miranda oversaw everything with hawk-like precision. "This is our chance to shut down the rumors," she declared, her tablet clutched like a weapon. "The whole world will see you two together, live. No edits, no excuses."
Amara sat stiffly in the makeup chair as powder brushed across her cheeks. Her stomach twisted with nerves. A live interview. With Ethan. Millions of viewers waiting for her to stumble.
Ethan appeared behind her in the mirror, impossibly calm in a tailored suit. "Relax," he said, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder. "It's just another performance."
She met his eyes in the reflection. "Performances usually have scripts."
His lips curved into a half-smile. "Then trust me to improvise."
When the cameras rolled, they sat side by side on a velvet couch, stage lights hot above them. Across from them, the host—a woman with a smile as sharp as glass—leaned forward eagerly.
"Ethan Knight," she purred. "And the mysterious bride who stole Hollywood's most untouchable bachelor. Welcome."
Ethan flashed his practiced grin. "Thank you. We're happy to be here."
The host turned her gaze to Amara. "And you must be Amara. The world has so many questions about you."
Amara forced her smile not to wobble. "I imagine they do."
The questions came fast, each one sharper than the last. How did you meet? What made Ethan fall in love? Was it love at first sight—or convenience?
Amara's palms dampened as she clutched Ethan's hand for show. But when she faltered, he filled the silence seamlessly, weaving a story that sounded effortless, almost true.
"She was editing one of my film scripts," he said smoothly, his thumb brushing over hers. "She challenged me in ways no one else dared. That's when I knew."
The audience cooed. The host arched a brow. "So it wasn't an arranged PR stunt, then?"
Amara froze. The words cut too close. For a heartbeat, her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth.
Ethan's arm tightened around her shoulders. He leaned down, kissing her temple gently, the cameras zooming in. "Does this look like a stunt?" he murmured, just loud enough for the microphones.
The room erupted in applause, the host caught off guard. Amara's heart thundered, not from the performance—but from the way his lips had lingered against her skin, soft and startlingly real.
She found her voice at last. "I think the only stunt here is how lucky I got," she said, smiling warmly.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't rehearsed. But it worked—the audience melted, and even the host couldn't disguise her grudging admiration.
By the end of the interview, the rumor mill had turned. The world wanted to believe in their love story—and Ethan had made sure they did.
Back in the car afterward, Amara exhaled shakily. "You saved me back there."
Ethan turned his head, his gaze unreadable. "No. You saved yourself."
Silence stretched, charged and fragile.
But in the back of her mind, Amara couldn't shake the feeling that every kiss, every smile, every touch—no matter how staged—was becoming something dangerously real.